


Asphalt Cowboy

by myaso



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Belly Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Mirage is turned on, Motormaster is big and nasty and mean, Power Play, Sweat, Truckers, Watersports, how do i even tag this?, obese, slob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17302328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myaso/pseuds/myaso
Summary: Mirage has a run-in with a huge, filthy bastard of a trucker, and he's left feeling as excited as he is disgusted. Bad decisions soon follow.





	Asphalt Cowboy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HilarisaurusRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HilarisaurusRex/gifts).



Mirage tried to make a habit out of avoiding this part of town. He had no reason to be there- no  _ good _ reason, at least- and if there ever  **_was_ ** a good reason for him to be there, then he knew that he was fucked. That was how, at 3am on a rainy Sunday morning, Mirage truly knew that somewhere in his decision making that night, something had gone incredibly wrong.

“What do you mean, you can’t be here until 10?  _ It’s barely 3! _ ” Mirage was nearly screaming into the phone, but he refused to lose the last vestiges of his composure that he still held. It was all that he had left tonight. “I don’t care if you don’t open until 10! Come fix my car!”

He was alone, at 3am, at a truck stop in the poorest part of town, standing a few meters away from a Bugatti that was clearly his (and that he was clearly locked out of), in clothing that likely set him worlds apart from anyone that worked or resided ‘around these parts’. Mirage slammed the payphone back into its dock on the wall, and then promptly raked his fingers down his face while letting out a noise of pure frustration.

Just as habitually as he avoided this part of town, Mirage avoided being  _ seen _ in this part of town. It wasn’t just here, of course, and not just in situations like these; Mirage didn’t like to be seen unless it was under his terms, being viewed in a sense of fawning adoration. He dressed to impress, but only to impress the  _ right people _ , and at the  _ right times _ \- otherwise, he would be happy to blend into the background. Being so unable to hide from the all-seeing fluorescent lights of the truck stop made him a special kind of anxious, one that made him shake at a bone deep level.

How could a night of partying have gone so wrong? He wasn’t even with his ‘new money’ friends, no, he had been with a crowd that he had assumed would be able to handle themselves. He had, of course, included himself in that crowd, but that had all faded as soon as one of them had broken out the cognac. He was sober enough to drive himself here, but, well...maybe waiting for 10am wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“Move.”

Mirage jumped. He was still shaken from drink and anxiety, and at first, the thunderously deep voice that he heard had almost seemed to be from a supernatural, or perhaps imagined, source; instead, as Mirage stepped out of the way, he was greeted by possibly the greasiest looking man that he had ever seen.

By no means short in himself, at just under six feet tall, Mirage felt absolutely dwarfed by the belching behemoth. The man- oh, but calling him that felt so  _ wrong _ \- immediately took up the entire space that Mirage had been lightly pacing through, shoving his girth up against the payphone and beginning to dial a call. His t-shirt had likely been white at one point, but it was an almost sickly yellow-grey with sweat and (he hoped) beer. He definitely smelled drunk, and Mirage watched the man sway a bit as he made his call.

It was all that he could to do to watch, to take in an exact visual representation of why Mirage avoided this area. A scraggly, uneven beard extended from the man’s face as unshaved stubble trailing down his neck, bordered by wispy sideburns that themselves trailed into an almost-mullet. A red-and-white trucker cap rested there, and as Mirage tried to read its inscription from the side, as if on cue, the man reached up to crush a previously unnoticed beer can against his forehead. 

The can clattered to the ground, and Mirage watched it drop. The man belched again- long, sustained, disgusting. Mirage couldn’t even pay attention to what was being said, too engrossed in mentally figuring out if this slob was closer to 400 or 500 pounds.

“You don’t look like one of the usual whores out here.”

Again, Mirage jumped, but he was directly faced with the man as he spoke this time. He had finished his call and then turned so quickly that Mirage couldn’t look away, and so they were face to face.

“I’m not-”

The man grinned, and leaned backwards against the phone. Mirage heard the plastic tray beneath the phone creak beneath the man’s weight, threatening to break.

“I know you’re not, man. I look like an idiot?” He didn’t even attempt to stifle his belch, even while facing Mirage. His hands instead seemed preoccupied with holding onto his belt buckle, before one went to scratch at...alright, no, Mirage didn’t want to look at that.

Unsure of what to say, Mirage went to turn away. He was feeling worse anxiety than he had yet, his heart pounding in his chest and his legs weak beneath him. He felt cornered, and he had to get away, but there was nowhere to go, and nowhere to run to to get away from the tightness enveloping him. Enveloping him- yes, it wasn’t just in his heart or in his stomach that he felt the tightness, but in his thighs, too. He knew what that was signalling, what it was a warning of. He was as disgusted by it as he was by this man.

“Hold on,” The man’s hand gripped Mirage’s shoulder, instantly leaving an imprint of sweat. “What are you doing out here?”

_ Hopefully, you. _

Mirage couldn’t stop himself from physically pulling his face back in disgust at that thought, and he tried to pull himself back from the man, surprisingly successful. He stepped back into the grass, further away from the payphone.

“I’m doing nothing that you need to be a part of.”

The man raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. Mirage had barely wiped the disgusted look off of his face when he now physically retched, absolutely disgusted by the smell that seemed to hit him all at once with the man’s movement. He both looked and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in who knows how long, and Mirage was attempting to convince himself that he didn’t want to find out.

Mirage pinched his nose, recoiling further.

“ _ Do not _ touch me.”

That, of course, only egged on the man before him. Mirage saw the grin return to his lips, and the man grabbed for him again- this time, ‘gently’ pushing him in the shoulder. Mirage tried not to move with the push, to use his strength and what bit of sobriety he had to fight back, but the man did it again.

“Stop-”

“Or what?”

“Stop that!”

Mirage was pushed harder. He tripped over his own legs and fell backwards into the grass, and in his daze, he briefly blacked out. When he came to, he nearly retched again- the man was standing over him.

“Do you even wanna know my name, or does the  _ mystery _ get to you?”

He hated himself, really and truly, when his first thought was of an earnest reply to the question, rather than a refute. Mirage scrambled in the grass, but as if being hit by a wave of static, he felt it: Something about this disgusting slob turned him on, and he couldn’t fight it. Mirage stopped holding his breath, and stopped trying to hide his erection.

“How much for it?”

They shared a look, and then the trucker laughed. His voice was as deep as what Mirage imagined a demon’s would be like- hell, he would have believed that this  _ thing _ was one. Some biblical representation of gluttony or lust, not a real man standing before him, his hairy stomach bulging so far out of the underside of his stained shirt that it was nearly touching Mirage on the ground.

“I’m not a fucking hooker. I should be asking  _ you _ how much, but we both know you’ll suck my dick for free.”

Mirage tried to stand up, even as his legs shook. The man helped him up with those same sweat-drenched hands that had pushed Mirage down to begin with.

“Look at me, pretty boy,” It was barked as if Mirage had an option, like he wasn’t being spun around to face the man with an iron grip. “Name’s Motormaster, and I run this fucking place. But I’m still not about to fuck you out in the open. I know you’d like that, know you’d like to be put in your place like you deserve- get you right off your high horse, huh?”

Weak at the knees once more, Mirage groaned.

“Just take me out back and fuck me, then.”

He never allowed himself to be that abrupt, even with those that he trusted the most. He was not some cheap slut, he had  _ class _ , he had...a throbbing erection for the most disgusting man that he’d ever been faced with, and he needed to do something about that.

No words were exchanged as the pair moved back behind the truck stop, where it looked as though no one had been for weeks unless to throw more garbage into the overflowing dumpster. Mirage knew where they were going before they were done walking, and like the good little whore that he definitely wasn’t, Mirage let Motormaster lean back against the dumpster before dropping to his knees nearly immediately.

“You think you’re so much better than me, and I can tell. You don’t need a fancy car, or those clothes- none of that. You’ll always think you’re better than me.”

The belt came off, and Motormaster’s hairy gut immediately spilled out even further, partially obscuring his own hard cock. Mirage braced his hands against the dumpster, preferring to touch it rather than Motormaster’s rancid inner thighs. One of Motormaster’s hands slammed Mirage’s head forwards, and he didn’t even have time to breathe before he was enthusiastically face-fucking himself on the trucker’s cock.

It was a taste unlike anything that Mirage cared to imagine, combining with the smell to make Mirage tear up as he sucked it. It wasn’t too long, but it was thick, with a wicked curve in it that seemed to grab the back of Mirage’s throat whenever he moved.

“I haven’t showered in days, but you don’t fuckin’ care. You’re taking my fat, sweaty cock anyways, huh? You think you’re something special, but I fucking look at you and you get hard. You’re lower than a truckstop hooker. You’re garbage.”

Tears rolled down Mirage’s face, as Motormaster’s hands began to encourage him, as well.

“On your knees on the asphalt, sucking sick behind a fucking dumpster-!” Motormaster groaned, loud and possessive. He didn’t even sound human. “And you’re gonna take all of this, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for this after, and I know you’re gonna come back for more!”

Motormaster bucked as much as his obese body allowed him to, the weight of his fat hips making Mirage feel like his neck was breaking with every thrust. Mirage was choking by the time that Motormaster finished, holding Mirage’s head in place not only until his body had stopped twitching, but until he was sure that Mirage had swallowed all of his cum.

“If you think you’re getting more than that, you’re real fuckin’ stupid.”

Mirage had collapsed, coughing, against Motormaster’s thighs. He wanted to be fucked hard, without lube even as the pain outweighed any semblance of pleasure, as his ass tore and bled and he was filled with even more of Motormaster’s cum. He wanted it, but he knew not to expect it; he was a warm and willing mouth, probably not even physically attractive to Motormaster. He was an object to degrade, and he knew that Motormaster knew that, just as much as Motormaster  _ wanted _ him to know that he knew that.

“Actually…”

His heart raced, and his hopes soared, only to crash back down. His own cock was still throbbing as Motormaster fumbled beneath his fat stomach to grab hold of his now flaccid cock, aiming for Mirage’s face. He didn’t have to be told to open his mouth, but he wondered if he even needed to- Motormaster pissed all over him, his face and clothes and everything. All of him was a target, a thing to be marked.

He was less than a sexual object. He was an object,  _ period _ .

An oil-stained rag was tossed from Motormaster’s pocket to Mirage’s feet, and Motormaster shoved him back. He began to tug back on his pants as he walked away, but not leaving before he’d called over his shoulder, loud enough for the world to hear:

“Come back here when you want my dirty dick again! I’ll be waiting!”

Just as suddenly as Motormaster had entered Mirage’s night, he exited it, too, disappearing beyond the corner. Mirage knew that he could have kept up with the man if he had followed him, his tryst partner moving at barely more than a waddle as his engorged stomach hung down in front of his thighs, and his thighs themselves jiggled and strained against the insides of his jeans.

It was sheer, horny desperation that kept Mirage in that alley, on his knees, as he furiously began to work his own cock to orgasm at the thought of all of bad decisions that he was about to make, and all of the bad nights that he was going to ‘accidentally’ find himself in, soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time writing either character, so I hope that it's alright! Love you, Rex! <3
> 
> You can go to my twitter (https://twitter.com/robotpornhell) to find out how to support me!


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